Shooting on the Green
by noenigma
Summary: A shooter on a rampage threatens the survival of Lewis and Hathaway and a green full of civilians. Rated for violence and death.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: I wrote this as one, longish story. I've tried to break it into parts for ease of reading, but I'm afraid it may be rather awkwardly done. The basic springboard for this story came from the wonderful scene referenced from the Inspector Morse episode _The Twilight of the Gods. _

Warning: This is a much more violent story than any I have ever written before or ever thought I would. There is a lot of death, and though I didn't try to get graphic, as a writer I did try to make the horror and sadness of it to come through clearly.

Disclaimer: This is purely for fan purposes. No copyright infringement intended.

Shooting on the Green

When the first shot was fired, most of the people on the green weren't quite sure what they had heard. Even the first victim didn't know what had slammed into him and sent him reeling to the soft grass.

Sergeant James Hathaway who had been interviewing a possible witness glanced up in the sudden quiet following the loud, incongruous report. He knew what he thought he had heard, but he couldn't believe he was right. Not in the quiet of a bright summer day on a small green in a sleepy village near the edge Oxford.

It fell then to Inspector Robbie Lewis, who had also been interviewing a possible witness to a crime that no longer seemed at all significant, to recognize exactly what had happened and sound the alarm. He knew instantly what he had heard. He'd heard it before, the day Gwladys Probert had been shot in the open area outside the Sheldonian Theatre.

He had stood beside Chief Inspector Morse in the midst of all the other spectators there watching the procession, and when the sound of the shot had crashed through the air, he'd watched the Welch Canary-Bird slump to the ground. He'd turned in shock and disbelief to Morse for direction and instruction and found that the man was too stunned by the unfolding events to give him either. It was the sergeant who had led the way to the downed woman, and the chief inspector who had numbly followed.

And all the time it had taken him to reach her, Lewis had been assuring himself he was mistaken…this was Oxford, not London or Belfast or New York City. Gunmen did not open fire in the University…it just wasn't done. It was only when the horrified medical man raised his white face to his own and Lewis had seen for himself the bleeding bullet hole that he had finally accepted the truth his instincts had been telling him all along.

He'd put his training to use then. "Everyone, get away! Clear the area! Get back! Get back! Everybody under cover!" The crowd had scrambled in awakened alarm at his cry, and it had taken only a few moments to get everyone safely indoors. There'd been a commendation placed in his file over his fast acting. Some of the academics gathered there that day had filed complaints against him for what they saw as a panicked overreaction…after all there was no mad gunman in the Bodleian that day, only a man bent on vengeance for forty-year-old atrocities; people could have been hurt unnecessarily rushing to safety. But even the Chief Constable had stuck by his man on the scene. There'd been a statement in the local papers praising the sergeant's quick thinking, and Chris Hoyle from the Oxford Mail had thrown his two cents in on Lewis' behalf.

But Lewis had been all too aware he hadn't acted quickly enough. All that wasted time between hearing the shot and accepting that was what he had heard…if there had been a madman at the theatre that day—how many would have died because he was too busy telling himself it couldn't happen, not in Oxford?

Chief Superintendent Strange had listened to his self-recriminations and authoritatively stated, "You mustn't feel that way, Sergeant. No one raised the call any sooner; almost certainly there were men in that crowd who had served in Her Majesty's Armed Forces and should have known what they'd heard. But, you, just an everyday English copper? Not even a huntsman, are you? No, Lewis. You acted correctly. And if it's any consolation, if, God forbid, you're ever in such a situation again…you'll know."

Strange's words had been all too prophetic, for that day on the green Inspector Lewis did indeed know it was a gunshot that had just intruded on an ordinary summer day in the small green at the edge of Oxford.

"Everybody get down! Clear the area! Get under cover!" he was shouting even before the echoing reverberations had completely faded away. Thirty to forty people had been taking advantage of the beautiful day and were scattered over the open expanse of the green. "This way!" he called to those closest to him. "Get behind the wall, here! This way!" He himself ran in the opposite direction, farther into the open. He grabbed people as he ran, pushing them back behind him toward the low stonewall facing the small brook still contently bubbling along on its merry way through the center of the green. "Get to the wall!" he ordered them and kept running.

He had been a natural runner in school, and he'd never failed to bring home a ribbon for the kids when he managed to attend their parent days. Even now, at his age, he could still outrun the young Hathaway when the situation called for it. And today…that first bullet had taken down a lad, just a child, eight—maybe nine, no older. Lewis ran for all he was worth, slowing only to push others towards the relative safety of the wall.

He went down on his knees beside the child and panted out a soft, "Hush, hush now" to the boy as he pushed his hand desperately against the bleeding wound in the child's side. Years of pathologists' reports told him things could have been much worse. Just a little higher and the bullet would have hit the liver; as it were there was blood, a lot of blood, but…even from such a small body, it was less than that would have amounted to he assured himself. "Hush," he said again to the child whose cries had only grown shriller with his arrival. "I'm going to get you—" he started to say as he began to gather the lad up in his arms, but he didn't finish because at that moment an entire barrage of bullets rained down on those still in the open.

Lewis threw himself over the lad while trying to keep the pressure on the boy's wound. He hunched over him and waited to die. He'd faced a bullet before on another beautiful summer's day. He'd survived that one only because Chief Inspector Morse had arrived to save the day. This one…surely by now someone would have called for help, but the nearest unit wouldn't be close enough to stop the bullets flying all around the green right now. A woman only a few paces from them suddenly gave a muffled cry and was thrown to the ground almost on top of them.

The boy under Lewis screamed, " We're going to die!" Lewis thought it was only too probable.


	2. Chapter 2

At Lewis' first shout, Hathaway reacted immediately, taking up the inspector's cries to get to cover and echoing them with his own. He pulled his stunned witness along with him and pushed others they encountered towards the small bridge over the brook. They slipped and scurried down the grassy bank to shelter close against the bridge wall.

There was a momentary lull between that first shot and the barrage that followed it. It couldn't have lasted more than sixty seconds, but it was long enough to allow a good number of the shocked and terrified people to scramble to relative safety in the trees lining the northern edge of the green, under the bridge, or behind the stonewall.

It was not long enough for those who had been too stunned by events to come to their senses and join in the mad dash for cover. When the shooting resumed a good fifteen people were still exposed. The shooter proved to be a fair shot even with screaming, running targets.

Hathaway crouched as far up the bank as he dared so he could reach out and grab anyone stumbling by in a blind panic. A couple of the people with him had kept enough wits about them to follow him partway up the bank. They took the frightened newcomers from him and urged them on to what had to pass as safety under the bridge. Hathaway searched the green for Lewis but things were happening so quickly and so many people were running and screaming and going down with plumes of blood bursting from their chests or back of their heads it was impossible for him to pick out one individual from another.

He looked down the bank at his motley assortment of survivors and called, "Stay down! For God's sake, stay down!" As the barrage of bullets slowed and then petered out altogether, he ran crouching out to a fallen body. It was a young boy…how many children had he watched playing on the green that day while the man he was interviewing hemmed and hawed his way through his dismally uninformative account? How many were out there unmercifully shot down like pigeons?

Hathaway grabbed up the child and ran him back to those waiting down the bank. Somehow, a man dragging his wounded leg behind him followed him to safety. Hathaway grabbed one of the uninjured and together they crept out to gather up a woman who didn't look as though she would live long enough to thank them for their heroism. Between them, they awkwardly hauled her back to the bridge and down the sloping bank. They settled her carefully in the soft, damp brookside under the bridge and scrambled back up the bank. But that was all they could do. All the other fallen were too far out; they didn't dare go after them.

Hathaway huddled near the top of the bank. He could hear his own breath coming in gasping gulps and the cries of those ranged below him. Out in the green though, there was only silence. The stillness after the firestorm of bullets was as stunning as its thunderings had been. And ominous. Shouldn't there have been cries and moans or something from those lying out there in the green grass? From his vantage point, he could see seven, multi-colored, unmoving humps he knew were bodies. Surely, the gunman couldn't have killed them all. Oh, please, God, please.

He pulled out his mobile and made the call with surprisingly steady hands. His insides were shaking apart, but his hands, wet and sticky with the blood of a child, were as steady as a rock. How was that he marveled, his mind latching onto something inconsequential to avoid having to take in the carnage all around him.

"Hathaway," he identified himself to the dispatcher.

There was an immediate flurry on the other end of the line; then Chief Superintendent Innocent's raised voice came through. "James! Where are you? Dispatch had you and Lewis in Melray Green…" he heard her swallow and knew that the forces of law and order were racing even now to the green. Back-up was on the way, but…where was the shooter? Could the response teams get past him to come to their aid?

Almost shouting, Innocent called over the line to him, "James!"

"Yes!…We're…here."

"Here?" she asked, her voice tight and hard. "In the green? At the shooting?"

"Yes…Melray Green….the shooting." He listened to himself not able to convey a coherent thought and wondered why. His mind was clear enough; it was only his mouth that wouldn't work.

"Oh, James," she breathed out as a soft exclamation of horror and sympathy.

"It's…there's—" he gave an inarticulate cry unable to put in words the ghastliness of the last few moments.

"James! Stay with me! Are you hurt?"

"I'm…fine."

"And Inspector Lewis?"

"I…I don't…know. He…wasn't with me. I can't…we're under…I can't see—I don't know!"

"All right, James! It's all right, Sergeant. You're under where?"

"Uh…the bridge…me and…" he paused to dully look over the people huddled near him. He tried to count but the numbers just kept slipping away from him.

"I need you to talk to me, Sergeant. I need you to take a deep breath and—" and whatever she'd been going to say was interrupted by another burst of gunfire. Hathaway slid the rest of the way down the bank and hands pulled him further under the bridge. The shots were coming from another direction now. The gunman had moved. The group under the bridge flattened themselves out against its cool, moist wall and pressed as far under it as they could go. There was no hope of ducking up the bank in the off chance someone was still moving up there and could use their help.

This time the shooting didn't last as long…how could it? There was no one left alive out there in the open. There couldn't possibly be.

"James! James!" Innocent's voice filled the ensuing silence as the sounds of the gunfire died away. Hathaway heard the urgency in her voice, and the terror, but he didn't recognize she was calling for him until one of those close to him nudged him.

He responded quickly enough then. "The gunman's moved! He's…on the north end of the green…up by the far trees," he reported.

There was an odd sound from Innocent. Something incoherent and strangled. Then a more normal, "You're all right? I thought—you're fine?"

He didn't know how to answer her. He was neither all right nor fine. Not in the least. But, he was alive and not injured. Even his still befuddled mind could recognize that made him as close to all right as he could be compared to those out there in the grass.

"James! Please, talk to me!"

"Right," he said, shaking his head to try to clear it. Then he told her what he thought she was really wanting to know, "I'm….not dead."

By the almost hysterical sound in her answering laugh, he knew he wasn't the only one finding the whole situation difficult. "I can hear that, James. And thank God for that, but…are you injured?"

"No…I don't think so. We've got some wounded with us…"

"Who is us, Hathaway? Is Lewis with you now?"

He wished she'd quit asking that. If the inspector hadn't called in by now—Hathaway couldn't go there. "Umm…"

"Twelve," a voice hissed beside him.

"Umm…twelve of us, Ma'am…under the bridge. We've got…a man down with a bullet to the leg—doesn't seem to be life-threatening…and, uh…a b-boy…uh, he's…uh…well, he's uh not in good shape. And then there's a woman…uh, we need…help. We need help. Soon."

"I know. I know. We're trying. We can't just rush—but we're coming. Hold on! What happened?"

"I don't know. One minute everything was fine…I was interviewing a witness, and Inspector Lewis took the other…off a bit. I don't know…off aways…to the south, I think—southwest, maybe. Then…there was a…shot and everything just…I don't know!"

"Okay. Okay. How many people were on the green…you can't have them all under the bridge?"

"No…there's at least seven bodies on the ground—" There were startled, dismayed cries around him at his words, but he ignored them and went on, "—before…before that last…and…that's only what I could see."

"Right. But…how many before the shooting started?"

"Thirty…maybe forty. Children—gobs of children. Oh, we've dogs, too."

"Dogs?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Two dogs."

"Oh. Okay. Let's concentrate on the people for now…there's twelve of you under the bridge, and the helicopters are counting—well, there has to be more hiding somewhere?"

"I think some made it to the trees…but, that's where the last shooting came from. And, well, I would have went over the wall if I'd been that way…and maybe some made it out into the car park?"

"Five…and a dog," she informed him. "And three more did come out of the trees near the beginning…" her voice faded out a bit and he thought she'd turned to talk to someone in the room with her, "…can the helicopter confirm movement at the wall? We're looking at upwards of nine—ten people, maybe less."

Hathaway could hear a murmured response, but he couldn't catch it. He tried to work out what her words meant: twelve under the bridge, five managed to make it out of the green through the car park, three more through the trees, his seven who hadn't, and…he hadn't been able to see over half the green—those seven were not the only dead or severely wounded…

"How many?" he asked into his mobile. "How many bodies are the helicopters seeing?"

"James…"

"Tell me!"

"At least eleven…I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes and tried to clamp his mouth shut over his next words, but they came out anyway. "Inspector Lewis was wearing a blue suit…there can't have been many of us in a suit here today. Can the…can they?"

There was for a moment only muffled noise from his mobile. He looked about at the men, women, and children huddled around him. Even in the shadows under the bridge their pale faces mirrored his horror and fear. He could read in their eyes that many of them had the same desperate question to ask, but they were all silent as though they waited with him for an answer he couldn't bear to hear.

"James, listen. The helicopters…we need them looking for survivors just now. We can't…okay? Let's assume Inspector Lewis got out of harm's way—you think he was to the southwest…that puts him near the wall. The helicopters have located a group of survivors there…too close together to make out an exact count from the distance, but they don't think everyone is accounted for yet. They're busy trying to spot others…"

"Okay," he said quietly though it wasn't. "But we both know—"

"Yes," she said, sighing heavily. Lewis should have called in by now. He would have called in by now if he were able.

"Listen. You're not the only one with a mobile out there. People will start to call in…we'll get a better idea of who's where and…um. Anyway, we need the names of those with you, right?"

"Yes," he said and handed his mobile to the person next to him. He quietly watched it be passed from hand to hand as people gave their names and begged for word about their situation and their family or friends. Then he turned away and carefully worked his way as far up the north bank as he dared. He could make out the shapes of two more fallen. And the gunman must have been able to make out his position, because a quick volley sent him scurrying back to safety.

Several of those under the bridge screamed when the shooting started again and most of them cried in the quiet that followed it.

"He's okay," someone called into his mobile to Innocent. "He's fine…" She held the mobile out to Hathaway, but he shook his head and brushed past her to head up the south bank. "No," the woman informed Innocent, "the fool's going up the other side now." Well, he didn't blame her. He should stay put. Keep his little group together and sit tight. Wait for help.

The only problem with that was…those bodies out there. He couldn't believe they were all dead. And he was a police officer, after all. He had a duty to the civilians sprawled out there on the green. He had to at least see if there was any way he could get to them. And what if…what if Lewis hadn't headed for the wall but for him? What if he was out there, wounded and in need of help, and Hathaway was too afraid to stick his neck out and try to reach him? He crept gingerly up the bank. Clouds had moved in and where earlier he'd been in open sunlight now he was in shadow.

Judging from that last spattering of bullets, the shooter must be working his way around the green towards the deep forest on the other side of the car park. Hathaway was sure it would do him no good. He'd left it too late. Armed officers had to be surrounding the green by this point. The gunman would not escape.

And…when he had accepted that, he'd come for them. He wouldn't go out with a whimper, but with as loud a bang as he could. And the group under the bridge was the largest one in the green. Not that he wouldn't necessarily have the time to finish off the one behind the wall as well…just how close were the SO teams? And how close were they to targeting the shooter and bringing him down? Surely…surely, they wouldn't let him (or her) take out the survivors.

Those bullets he'd drawn a few moments before might not have been as foolish as his bridge mates assumed…they should have helped the snipers locate their quarry. Not that he was in any hurry to help them out in that way again. He cautiously raised his head above the embankment and surveyed those downed by the gunman.

Only one, a very small child, gave any indication of life. She was screaming again and again in uncontrollable fear. Had been screaming for so long that the sound she made was faint and didn't carry. He thought that was what had saved her. By the time the shooting had stopped, her cries had grown too weak to reach the gunman. Else, he would have already put an end to her suffering.

Hathaway crept hesitantly out onto the green through the dappled sunlight. Staying as low as he could, he edged slowly towards the child. When he thought he might be close enough for her to hear him, he spoke to her in a low, quiet voice, saying, "Hey there…it's all right." He shook his head at the foolishness of those words. It was not all right, and the silent form on the other side of the girl testified it would never be all right. Her mom, he guessed. Dead. The girl though…she didn't appear injured herself. She just might—"Come," he urged her quietly. "Come to me." She continued to scream and gave no indication she had heard him. He tried again, louder this time. Far too loud, surely. This time she turned his way and looked straight at him, her mouth open wide with her endless screams.

He made a small 'come here' motion and tried to give her a reassuring smile. And, wonders of wonders, she scrambled to her feet and ran across the grass towards him. If she would have been older he would have stopped her, tried to convince her to stay down and crawl to him, but she was so young, so small, so utterly vulnerable to bullets…he could do nothing but lie quietly and murmur, "That's right. Come to me…that's a good girl," until she threw herself down near his face. Afraid of startling her into another screaming fit, he moved quietly to pull her in close to him.

"Hello. What a good girl you are…don't be afraid. It's all right. I've got you. That's right." He kept up a stream of murmured comforts as he scooted carefully back towards the bridge. He hadn't thought he had come so far out into the open, but the tortuously slow trip back must have taken twenty years. And he'd only just begun it when the clouds took back their dubious cover and left him bathed clearly in bright sunlight.

As soon as he had worked his feet back far enough, hands grabbed him and pulled them both down the bank. He hadn't been prepared and he gave a startled laugh in surprise. The little girl looked questioningly into his face and gave him an uncertain smile. Then she placed her thumb in her mouth and with a shuddering sigh lay her head against his shoulder.

He scrambled to his feet and hunched over to carry her back into the deep shadows of the cave. Then he slumped against the cool wall and rocking slightly began to cry with huge, wracking sobs. One of the women tried to take the child for him, but the little girl gave out a warning cry and held on for dear life. Someone placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and someone else tossed a baby blanket over them. The little girl pulled it close and let his sobs rock her to sleep.

The woman with his mobile sidled over to sit beside them. He fought for some sort of control, any would do. Finally, he managed to swallow down most of his horror. He took the mobile from the woman's hand and nodded his thanks.

Hello?" he said shakily into it.

"James," Innocent answered back. Her voice was low and worried, and it made him want to cry all over again. But, when she spoke again, it was in her usual bracing tone. "I do not want you to go out again…I was watching that whole thing on video—all of Thames Valley was watching it on video! It was foolish. You could have been killed! I need you, alive and whole…who knows how long this is going to go on? We can't…anyway, it was foolish. But…very brave. And…good result—just…just don't do it again! That's an order, Sergeant…do you hear me?"

"Yeah," he tried to say, but it came out a weak croak. He cleared his throat and said, "Yes, Ma'am. Acknowledged."

"Good. Now…I've news."

"About Inspector Lewis?"

"Yes…"


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three:

The call had come through while she'd been watching transfixed and horrified as Sergeant Hathaway inched his way out from safety onto the open green. It had taken her a moment to understand she was being connected to one of the survivors hunkered down behind the stonewall she could see snaking off into the distance beyond Hathaway and his bridge.

"Chief Superintendent Innocent here. What can you tell me?"

"We need help…we need help fast…there's…ten—nine of us. We're—"

"Yes, I know where you are, but…I'm afraid it's going to take us some time to get anyone out to you."

"No! You can't! Please! We're dying here."

"I promise you, we're doing everything we can. We need you to sit tight…we believe the gunman—I'm sorry, we think he is in position to open fire on you if you try to move away from the wall, and certainly if you try to go over the top…we've men trying to get a line on him, and when we do…but."

"Okay. So we sit tight and hope to God your men—fine, but…this can't go on. It's been hours!"

"No, no," she told him gently. "Not even one. Seventeen minutes, that's all. And it won't be much longer. It can't be. Now, please…we need the names of those there with you and their condition."

"Right…uh…I don't know. Me—oh, uh, Ron Jessup, my boy Tony—he's hurt, bad I think…he's out of it, bleeding, hurting…and uh…um…Kyle? Yes, Kyle…Landrew—he's uh…sssshot, but uh…hanging in there…and…Leslie Sharps, she's okay. She's got her…baby with her—he's fine too. And Jude H-Hailey, Sam Trainal, and Sarah Fisher…they're okay." The man's voice trembled and his words came out in fits and starts, and Innocent couldn't help but picture him with tears streaming down his face and feel her own chest constrict with his distress. "And there's a woman…well, there was another woman, but…uh…yeah. And then we got another chap…I don't know…he's uh…well, he's shot, isn't he? And I don't know his name…he went out after my Tony…and uh…and he…he…was shot bringing him back. Your blokes need to come get him. Like now…"

Innocent, watching the tiny child make her stumbling way toward her officer lying exposed out in the open and hearing Ron Jessup's report, couldn't draw in enough air to respond.

"Are you there? Oh, tell me you're there!" he cried, panic clear in his voice.

"I'm here. I'm here…I'm sorry. Listen, does he…can you find any identification on the man…or the woman?"

"Hold on…let's see, uh…yeah, she's uh…Ashley…we can't…we can't—it's blood soaked…we can't…can't get the rest."

"Okay. That's okay. And the…man?" Could he hear through the line that she didn't want to hear his answer? Could he hear the regret and sorrow already welling up in her? The tears she couldn't quite swallow like she could hear his?

"Right…uh, Oh! He's one of yours. A cop! Uh…Lewis. Inspector Robert Lewis."

"I…yes. Thank you…um, uh, listen, I'm going to hand you over to the…paramedics. Um…they are going to need you to…uh…tell them about the injuries of the..wounded you have with you there. Someone will stay on the line with you until this is over, do you understand?"

"Yes…But, my wife—our families?"

"We've got people on their way now. They'll let them know you're alive, and they'll be waiting for you when this is over. I promise."

"Thank you," Jessop said quietly. She handed him over to the paramedics in time to watch Hathaway disappear with the tiny child into the shadows under the bridge.

And now, here she was trying neither to weep nor scream in the sergeant's ear. And not quite managing either one of them. "Apparently he pulled the same stupid stunt you just did…and now the people he's with—they don't think he's going to make it! So don't go out again! Do you hear me? Stay under that bridge!"

"I…I can't."

"What!"

"We can't. None of us…the shooter. When he knows…there's no way out. He'll come for us, won't he?" He ignored the horrified looks on the faces around him and went on, "We've got children…and wounded and…" he shook his head and drew in a deep breath before continuing, "we're sitting ducks if we wait for him to start picking us off. We'd never get through the bridge and up the bank…not with—no, we can't wait. We've got to move while we have time to take it slow and careful…before he's firing on us."

There was no immediate answer from the chief superintendent, and as he waited he looked at the people around him and said, "I'm sorry. It's the only way." Most of them looked away. The woman who had taken his mobile earlier nodded her agreement, and a few of the others swallowed, licked their lips, and joined her.

Then Innocent came back on, "Right. Well, the Officer in Charge agrees with your assessment. We're coming up with a plan now…stand by. And don't do anything foolish in the meantime!"

"Yes, Ma'am," he told her. The weariness in his voice convinced her he wouldn't.

The danger in trying to draw the shooter's attention from the northeastern edge of the bridge where the survivors might with a little luck and enough distractions have a chance of making a dash for the tree line through a narrow and shallow draw leading up from the river bank…well, it meant forcing him to the northwest and giving him a potential site on the group hunkered down on the western side of the wall which ran in a north-south direction facing the brook. There would be absolutely nothing between them and their assailant…and beyond them, the tidy little residential area full of young families butting up to the western boundaries of the green would put the police sharpshooters at a distinct disadvantage. (Innocent had sent in the request for a neighborhood evacuation, but these things took time they didn't have.) Flanking the green on its eastern edge, beyond the flat, horrifying open expanse of grass was the mainly deserted car park offering little to no cover at all; the bridge group might as well shout and wave a red flag to attract the gunman's notice as attempt to escape that way. And the southern end was, if possible, even more exposed.

No, if they were going to try to slip away without the shooter's knowledge, it would have to be from the northeast.

All right then. Push the assailant farther back into the thick woods bordering the northern boundaries of the green (absolutely perfect, already he was too far in to give the snipers a shot) and harry him to the west. And, maybe, if they were lucky, a well-placed bullet might drop him before they had to risk the lives of those people under the bridge or of those at the wall.

But that proved to be a futile hope. Over the next little bit the SO team kept up a constant attack-and-retreat campaign to maneuver the shooter as far from the eastern side of the bridge as they could without cornering him and forcing him in to doing something neither they nor the people huddled beside the wall could live with.

"All right, James," DCS Innocent said over the mobile to Hathaway, "we're almost ready…we're sending a man down the draw to you. If—and only if—he makes it through without drawing any fire, you can begin moving your people out. Our man will take two or three at a time…tell them to stay low and take it slow. An ambulance team will come down after the first group makes it out…wait for them before sending anyone else, okay? Do you understand?"

"Yes," Hathaway said. "How long until he arrives?"

"He'll take it very carefully…give him ten minutes?"

"Right. Ten minutes." Most of the adults under the bridge glanced at their watches and then frowned at them in incomprehension. Ten minutes would make it half one, yet they all could have sworn it had to be nearly evening. They'd been hiding in the shadows for hours and hours…not just going on thirty minutes. It wasn't possible. Time had come to a virtual standstill for them while out there—in the real world where children still laughed and ran in the sun and their bosses frowned over their unpunched timecards and empty places—life had gone on uninterrupted.

Hathaway shifted carefully but didn't try to stand. Better if the child in his arms didn't waken, didn't have the chance to cry and give away their position. He breathed softly against her soft brown hair and spoke quietly to Innocent. "Listen. That ambulance crew…would they—could they…this little girl…she won't—she might cry or scream or…"

"Right," Innocent said, "they'll do whatever they have to do…and they'll be careful. She'll be all right. She is all right, isn't she?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"All right then." There was a pause, and then her voice came through with a hushed urgency that she couldn't hide. "And, Hathaway?"

"Ma'am?"

"Get rid of the dogs."

Of all the things she might have said, her statement was a complete non sequitur to him. The dogs, who'd spent most of the time pressed closely against anyone who would say a quiet word to them, occasionally whining softly when things weren't erupting up on the green, and crying piteously when they were, had more or less slipped his mind. The people were his priority; the dogs hadn't even rated his notice. "Dogs, Ma'am?"

"Yes, Sergeant, the dogs!" Hathaway heard her anger—or was it anguish? Still his mind could not accept what her words were implying.

He weakly protested. "Ma'am?"

Her answer when it came was loud enough to carry to everyone under the bridge. "Do it, Sergeant. Now! Before they start barking and give our man away. Whatever you've got to do, Hathaway—do it." He stared in muted horror at the people around him, and they stared back. "Sergeant?" Innocent called, demanding an acknowledgement to what she knew was a more-then-onerous order.

"Right, Ma'am. I'll deal with them."

"Good."

"You can't kill them, Sergeant!" John Corlane, his less-than helpful witness from that long ago time before that first shot had turned all their lives upside-down, said. Hathaway realized he'd seen Corlane calming the frightened animals throughout their ordeal, and they were both even now crowding close to him.

Kill them. How could he kill two dogs, pets, loved family pets…like members of the families themselves? And how? With his bare hands? And here? In front of these horrified civilians…but, what then? They couldn't allow them to give away the man coming to their rescue. And they couldn't hope to take them as they tried to slip away from their killer…dogs couldn't be reasoned with, couldn't be controlled. They couldn't know when one would bark or run and draw the shooter's attention their way. No, as much as he hated it, the order was necessary—he had to put the lives of these people over that of the two dogs. But, there had to be another way.

"What then, Mr. Corlane?" he asked. "Give me an option."

Corlane spoke quickly and desperately, "They've both leashes…we can tie them up."

"And then?" one of the other men asked. "So we tie them up…they'll still raise the alarm with their barking." He shook his head. "No, it's a hard thing, but…it's got to be done." There were murmured protests and agreements among the group. Hathaway glanced at his watch. They didn't have time for this. Whatever they were going to do, they had to do it soon.

"Wait," someone said. "Look." He held out his arm to show them the sweatbands on his upper arm and wrist. "Muzzles?" The dogs weren't best pleased with the suggestion. They whined and whimpered and pawed at the strange, unwelcome bands. With gentle words, Coltrane calmed them as much as he could, and it was the best the group could do for them.

They'd barely finished in time. A lone man slipped quickly and purposefully down the northeastern bank, and surveyed them all with an assessing glance.

"Your man's here," Hathaway informed the chief superintendent.

"Good," she said with evident relief. "And, James…good luck."

"Thank you," he told her, and they both knew he meant for a lot more than that 'good luck'.

"Sergeant Hathaway?" the new man asked and squatted beside him. "Sergeant Gering, Special Operations. That shooting you're hearing…it's still just our chaps keeping the assailant at bay. It looks like we have a clear run for the moment…who's going first?"

Hathaway and the others had avoided that question in the seven minutes it had taken Gering to reach them. Now most of them avoided looking at one another as though to hide their shame or hope or fear. Although he hadn't called them out yet, Hathaway had already decided who would be the first out. The man…what was his name? Hathaway realized with a start he didn't know any of their names besides Coltrane's. It didn't matter though. They were special, infinitely precious all the same. He'd never forget any of their faces, never forget the feel of the child in his arms, or the comforting hand on his shoulder while he'd cried with relief and terror and unbearable sadness. So…

He caught the eye of the man with the wounded leg. "You're first."

Gering gave a very small, involuntary start at his choice, but Hathaway knew if things fell apart out there in the trees, if the gunman made a break for them, and they had to run for it—he needed the walking wounded safely away.

The man nodded at Hathaway and pulled himself up to move towards safety. "I'll hurry," he promised the sergeants and the others.

"No. You'll go slow and careful," Hathaway told him. "And you'll make it fine."

"That's right," Gering said confidently. "Easy peasy. Who else?"

Hathaway nodded towards the woman who had given the little girl the baby blanket. That had been the only spontaneous movement he'd seen her make. He hadn't asked why she had had a blanket to give up. He hadn't needed to. She'd been deathly pale and even now wide-eyed and numb with shock. "She'll need a hand," he told Gering. "Go easy on her…and don't let her see the green."

Gering looked uneasily at him and then nodded his understanding. "Right then," he said, "let's get going." Once they were on their way, Hathaway turned to the others and quietly told them where they each stood in the line-up. He'd expected some mild protests at the least, but there were no complaints as they each accepted his decisions without a murmur.

He nodded his head in quiet thanks to them all, and then it was back to waiting. His legs were cramping, and he shivered in the dampness even though the early afternoon heat still kept the temperature under the bridge this side of chilly. The little girl stirred, then sighed, and settled back to sleep. He breathed a prayer of relief.

In time their rescuers returned to collect the injured woman. Hathaway, feeling an urgency the people from the outside didn't seem to share, insisted Gering carry the boy out instead of coming back with a second stretcher. Gering opened his mouth to protest but must have seen something in Hathaway's haunted eyes. He shut his mouth, carefully gathered up the boy, and followed the medics bearing their fragile load between them.

Hathaway looked around at the white, stricken faces surrounding him and knew it wouldn't do. Not at the rate they were going. The longer it took them to escape, the more likely the shooter would cotton on. And then it would have to be a mad, blind dash up the draw anyway. He couldn't wait for Gering to return to shepherd the next group along…he'd give the ambulance crew a few more minutes and then he'd send the next three out on their tails with the little girl. And the next three after them. And then he'd go up himself with the mobile woman. She'd seemed the most level-headed of them all; he thought she'd survive the wait better than any of the others. Almost certainly better than he would himself.

He informed the others of his decision. They nodded their agreement without a word. And then he informed Innocent.

"No! James. Stick to the plan. The people up here…they know what they are doing. Let them do their jobs. Stay put—"

"I can't, Ma'am. I'm sorry but…I can't ask them to wait down here…it will—"

"It's not your job to ask them to do anything, Sergeant. You are the OiC down there…and you are under orders yourself. Trust the people up here, Sergeant. Stick to the plan." And then she added with a voice of ice, "It's out of your hands. It's not your responsibility or decision, Hathaway."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he looked around at the people staring at him. Innocent was wrong, of course. It was his responsibility…these people were his responsibility. Not just because he was the police and they weren't, but also because they were his fellow human beings…he couldn't just leave them to the fates or the 'people up here'. He was the one to whom they were all looking; his word the one for which they were all waiting.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but they are. And we're coming up." And with that he ended the call. And shut off his mobile. He could only hope there'd be time enough to face the consequences of hanging up on the chief superintendent later.

"You know what to do," he told the three next in line. "And one of you will need to take this one," he added, inclining his head toward the sleeping child in his arms. Only when they'd tried to shift her did he realize the medics had either forgotten to sedate her or to explain to him why it couldn't be done. She gave out an unhappy howl and clutched onto his arm as though her life depended on it. He looked up into the eyes of the woman trying to take her and knew that he'd be jeopardizing all their lives if he sent her screaming and struggling up the draw in someone else's arms.

"All right," he said. "All right. I'll take her up myself…go ahead. It's all right." The little girl cried softly in Hathaway's arms as the three put their trust not in the people up there who knew what they were doing but in the young sergeant who shared their terror and their desperate need for escape. He rocked the child gently and whispered a soft 'shh, shh' over and over again in her ear as he stared out after them. He turned on his mobile and tersely reported, "Three away," and turned it off again before Innocent could tear into him.

They tensely waited out the next three or four minutes. At every second, he was afraid he'd hear shots and screams from the north, but there were only the hushed cries of the child in his arms and the hammering of his heart in his chest.

After an eternity, he gave the nod to the next three, and then there were only the mobile woman, the child, and Hathaway himself.

"They'll make it," the woman assured him. "We'll make it. You made the right call…you know you did."

He didn't. Not for certain. Not until the dogs' whines became insistent and they heard someone making his or her way down the south slope. For one frozen moment they stared at each other, and then they were running for their lives. They'd hardly started up the bank when a shot whizzed past his ear. He flattened himself against the soft earth and scrambled after the woman as quickly as he could.

Shots and shouts burst forth behind him, but they only lent him speed. There were exclamations and more scrambling from above them…the people up on top coming to cover them and speed them on their way up the draw. The child was screaming; her voice restored to ear-shattering decibels that almost drowned out the wild beating of his heart.

And then they were out of the draw and being pulled to safety under the trees.

He stumbled to his knees and retched. He didn't see Chief Superintendent Innocent rocking on her feet and closing her eyes and breathing out a murmur of overwhelming relief. They'd all made it. All escaped the horrors down below. She'd composed herself enough to lay an almost steady hand on his shoulder and say, "Good work, Sergeant," before he'd taken in the fact she was there. She went about the difficult business of being a chief superintendent during a shooting rampage without letting him get too far out of her sight.

Dr. Hobson hovered around him, too. Her features tense and white; her usually caustic sense of humor nowhere in evidence. The other doctors—the ones who dealt with living, breathing patients on a routine basis—ran a quick eye over him and the little girl still hanging onto him for all she was worth, and hurried back to those that needed their attention. Hobson's patients waited patiently out on the green; they were in no hurry nor would they ever be again. She was free to stay there by his side, and she did. He didn't have to ask why. But he had no news to give her and no words of comfort or hope. She knew everything he did.

The group from the bridge had largely dispersed, carried off in ambulances with sirens blaring, or enveloped in the hugs of their family and friends and quickly escorted away. The mobile woman was among the last to leave. She stopped briefly at his side to brush a hand over the little girl's head. "No one's claimed her, then?" she asked. "Do we know her name?"

"Not yet," he said. "I'm sure there'll be someone along soon…or after—there will be something to identify who she is. Until then…I don't mind the company."

She smiled at him. "Just wait…how are you at potty training, Sergeant?"

"Oh, there's a children's worker on the way…she'll be properly looked after until her family comes for her," he assured the woman.

"Right. Well, I'm off myself. Just wanted to say thanks…you did good out there. And see, you were right. It's over…"

Only, of course, it wasn't. There were still people down there; those at the wall and those who'd rushed into harm's way to protect him and his group. And, if he had somehow held on this long, there was still Inspector Lewis.


	4. Chapter 4

Huddled over the frightened boy, Lewis had thought he was right. They were going to die.

Unless they could find cover. He raised his head to track the distance separating them from the safety of the wall. It might as well have been miles away. There were three dead between them and it. And a bullet-ridden push chair turned over on its side, a scuffed and battered football, and a rubbish bin. The bodies, the push chair, and the football afforded him nothing. The rubbish bin though. If he could reach it…would it provide them with enough shelter? The boy, maybe…if he could prop him up with it between him and the shooter. Not Lewis himself though. He was too tall, too broad…still it was the boy he needed to get out of harm's way. Was it doable? Making a run for it, under a hail of bullets and slowed down by the weight of the boy and his own fear?

He decided it wasn't. And then he realized the shooter wasn't content to leave the dead. He targeted them over and over again…what cover his body afforded the boy, wouldn't hold up for long. Better to try to get him to safety now while he could than wait until there was nothing he could do for anybody ever again.

Before he could act, something struck him high in his right shoulder. A bullet, obviously, though it hadn't felt at all like he'd always imagined it would. But then, the impact had been light…it hadn't been a direct hit. It might not have even penetrated far, just skimmed along the bone and bounced off. He didn't have time to find out if his guess was correct or if it was only the adrenaline flooding his system—or an over-developed case of denial—that kept the injury from seeming serious.

All that mattered was that he could still carry the boy. But, he couldn't…not with his right arm; it simply wouldn't work. The fireman's hold then…with the lad thrown over his left shoulder, his injured side bouncing against Lewis, and his vulnerable head and back like a huge 'kick me' sign…no, if he couldn't carry the lad in such a way as to shield him from the gunman…they were better off where they were. He tried again, willing his arm to move and lift and hold, and it did. He tried to come up into a crouch with the lad clasped in his arms—the boy cried out in pain, and Lewis himself saw red and thought he was going to fall over on top of the him.

That wouldn't do. He'd committed them now…made the move that might draw the shooter's attention. It was now or never. He grunted under the boy's weight and with the pain now shooting through his shoulder and down his right arm, but he did what he'd set out to do. Only he didn't stop at the rubbish bin as he'd intended.

A man stood up from behind the wall, waving him on and shouting. Lewis couldn't make out what he was calling, but he thought, "Well, then…when I go down, he'll come for the lad. He'll finish the job. Got to get him closer, got to get him within reach." Bullets flew around them, but by some miracle they didn't hit them. And then, somehow, they were at the wall. The man reached out an arm and pulled them towards him.

"Tony! Tony! My boy. Tony!" he shouted as he grabbed the lad out of Lewis' arms. The two of them disappeared behind the safety of the wall, and Lewis sagged with relief. That was done then. He'd brought the boy not only to safety but also to his father. That was all right. From the moment the bullets had started raining down on them, Lewis had never actually expected to survive where so many others were dying. He'd held on to get the boy to shelter, but…that was done. He was done.

And if the gunman hadn't tired of the game for the moment, he would have been done as he stood there with his empty arms and emptier mind. Then the boy's father was back, calling to him, "Come on! Don't just stand there…come on!" Lewis obeyed the urgency in his voice and with the man's help began to clamber over that final hurdle.

Two shots in rapid succession slamming into him sent him sprawling to the other side where he fell into a small mass of huddled bodies which screamed and scattered before him. He was out before he hit the ground.

It was the shooting beginning all over again and much closer than the sporadic shots that had been going off and on for a good part of the past hour that brought him up from the depths of unconsciousness. He jerked awake with his heart pounding and his stomach rising in his throat, and so great was his rising terror that the pain which immediately assailed him seemed just another extension of his fear. He'd had nightmares of that day in Wytham Woods before, woken up with the taste of fear and its horrible hold over him all but paralyzing him more times than he'd admitted even to his wife, but this was worse. A thousand times worse. Only gradually did he realize that was because the shooting wasn't stopping…the nightmare had followed him into the waking world.

And then, slowly, the pain demanded he acknowledge it for what it was. He took in his surroundings, remembered the bodies on the green, and knew he wasn't trapped in any nightmare. He groaned and struggled to assess his situation. The lad from the green was lying next to him, too pale, too still, but…he could see the rise and fall of the boy's chest as he struggled to pull in enough air and knew he was alive. The woman on the far side of the lad though…he drew in a despairing cry and then someone was hovering at his side. The lad's dad. He lay a comforting hand on Lewis' thigh and said something Lewis didn't catch. There were others around them. His vision was swimming and it was hard to tell how many or where they were…behind the wall he assumed. The wall.

The wall facing the bubbling brook and its small bridge…Hathaway had been near the bridge when the shooting started. Hathaway. He struggled to draw in enough air to choke out the words, "Hathaway…my sergeant. Where is he?"

The lad's father leaned close to hear him and the shooting momentarily ended so that he could hear Lewis' strangled question. "I'm sorry," he answered. "I don't know." Lewis blinked back his dismay. The sergeant should have reported in to him…wait, he needed to report in. Yes, Innocent would be having a conniption fit he'd failed to keep her informed, and Hathaway…the lad would have called in already, surely. Innocent would know what he was about.

"Need me mobile…coat pocket," he gasped out, and Dad obligingly and carefully located it. Lewis found to his consternation that he couldn't actually reach out and take it.

Dad took in his predicament and said, "Listen, Mate…I don't think you're in any shape for that. Plus I've got your boss on my mobile here…think she'd appreciate hearing from you before you start calling everyone in the county."

"Oh, aye," Lewis breathed out in appreciation.

He listened as the man spoke into the mobile to say, "Hey, don't know what's happening out there, but your man's awake…wants to talk to the boss lady." There was a pause, and then Dad held the mobile out so Lewis could use it.

"Lewis?" Innocent's voice was strained and rushed. Well, it would be, wouldn't it? She had a shooter running amok in a city green, bodies strewn from one end to the other, and probably half the higher-ups breathing down her neck.

"Yeah…Hathaway?" His voice was too weak to get out the whole name, but he trusted she'd know what he wanted to know.

"Um…he's…here—safe. He's safe."

Any other day, he would have heard the uncertainty behind her statement and known he wasn't getting the full truth. But today-lying in the heat, waves of pain washing over him, an all-prevailing tiredness weighing him down, and a tight band constricting his breathing-he missed it. Instead he only heard her words and his thought was good, that was fine then. Now all he had to worry about were these folks here. "What's the sit…sit…sss," he couldn't get the word out, but once again she knew what he wanted.

"Well, it's looking much better now than it was a minute or two ago…we've just gotten the last of the people out from under the bridge…they're okay. It was close, but they're okay. That just leaves you lot. The shooter's still in play…but it's only a matter of time."

"Right."

"Can't be much longer. How about you?"

"Um…fine," he said because Hathaway was okay, the lad was alive, and she'd just promised him there was going to be a speedy end to this living nightmare to which he'd awakened. He frowned at the odd look that flitted across Dad's face in response. Maybe he wasn't all that fine after all. "I guess anyway."

"Good. Good," she said, and even in his present state, he couldn't miss the disbelief in her response. Maybe he should take stock and see just what he had going on…later though. Right now, he wanted to talk to his sergeant.

"Talk to the lad?" he asked.

"What? What lad? What do you mean?" she asked. He frowned at the mobile. It was all a good deal too much. There was the pain to deal with, the muddled thoughts, the uncertainty, the horror of the dead and wounded filling the once peaceful green, and, on top of all that, he was completely knackered. He couldn't work up the energy to explain he'd meant to say Hathaway. It was all right though for the next thing she said was, "Listen, I've got some things to see to, but Sergeant Hathaway would like a word, if you're up—well, if that's all right."

He managed to convince her it was. "Sergeant."

"Sir," Hathaway's voice was just as strained as Innocent's, maybe more.

"What happened…you all right?" he croaked out.

"Long story, Sir. It will have to wait, I think. I'm fine though…now. Hobson's asking after you."

"Tell her I'm fine."

"Are you? If you don't mind me saying, Sir, you sound a bit—"

"Yeah…just a bit. But, still…could be worse."

"Yes, Sir," Hathaway agreed.

"What…out there, on the green…what?"

"We still don't know, Sir. So far the shooter has evaded capture…and no one's gotten a clear enough shot to bring him down. They've winged him a time or two, but…no joy. Where he could possibly have gotten all the ammo he's shot at us…can't imagine."

"There are a lot of bodies out there."

"I know, Sir…up to twelve—maybe more. Not your fault. Nothing you could do."

"Or you."

"Yeah. Or me…and if I say that often enough will I believe it?"

"Doubtful."

"Listen. Things are happening down there. Could be they're going to want to move you all…in a hurry. What do you think? Can it be done?"

He thought about that impossible run he'd made to reach the wall. If he could make it through that in a firestorm…yeah, he and the lad and whoever else might be lying around bleeding and oozing who knew what body fluids all over the soft grass could survive whatever their rescuers might subject them to in their attempt to get them out of harm's way. "Anything's possible, Sergeant," he told Hathaway and then asked, "You coming?"

Innocent must have been standing close enough to hear their conversation and grab back the mobile, because it was her voice that came decisively over it to answer to his query. "No. He is not!"

"Then I'll see him when it's over."

"I'm sure he'll hold you to that, Inspector," she said. "And your daughter. She's on her way."

"Oh…you shouldn't have worried her."

"I didn't. She saw Hathaway's—well, she saw the story on the news and guessed you were out there in the middle of it. I couldn't very well tell her there was nothing to worry about…and honestly, Robbie, it might be good she's coming." She paused an instant to give him time to answer but was met with only silence. "Now, I need to talk to Mr. Jessop."

Lewis was more than happy to let Dad—Mr. Jessop?—take over the chore of talking. It was much harder work than he'd ever found it to be before.

Whatever plans were being made to reach and evacuate the last survivors of the Melray Green Massacre never materialized. The shooter, a thirty-year-old former student who had killed one infant, five children, four women, and two men that beautiful summer afternoon in an inexplicable rampage of terror, was brought down by a police sniper one hour and thirty-two minutes after he'd first shot eight-year-old Tony Jessop.

There was a frenzied dash to reach those at the wall and get the wounded the care they so desperately needed. And then there was the slower, more methodical arrival of Dr. Hobson's forensic team (the doctor herself had been among the first to reach not the dead but the living) and SOCO.

The wounded boys spent several days in side-by-side beds at the Radcliffe. They became fast friends and gave the sisters quite a time of it until they were discharged. Hathaway's injured woman spent a week in intensive care, three months in rehab, and the rest of her life in a wheelchair. His man with the bullet in his leg recovered well and was left with only a slight limp and an ugly, purple scar.

His little girl went home with her maternal grandparents, destined to be followed through life with horrific nightmares. Hathaway visited her from time to time, and he never arrived that she didn't throw herself in his arms and stay there until her grandparents had to pull her off of him when the time came to leave.

Lewis suffered through three surgeries, a nasty post-op infection, several weeks of physical therapy, and the fussing and cosseting of his daughter, his son, his sergeant, and his pathologist. He was all too happy to escape them all (except Hathaway, of course, though he would have done if it had been possible) and return to duty when he finally got medical clearance.

But, there were no happy endings nor could there be. Families were devastated and the community shattered. It was an atrocious and wanton act that no one who had lived through the carnage out on the green that day would ever truly put behind them. They were survivors and they survived. It was the most that could be hoped.

Author's Notes:

Occasionally, a story will write itself. This one began one night just before bedtime when I thought I was merely doing the computer equivalent of jotting down a rough beginning to a vague story idea that might or might not ever amount to anything. Over the next twenty-six and a half hours it poured out in a relentless torrent of words interrupted only for the barest necessities of family life and a few, excruciatingly long hours of sleepless tossing and turning.

And then, as suddenly as it had taken off, it was finished. I was left to struggle through the next four days of endless rereading; sketching hopeless diagrams in an attempt to understand just who was where when and why someone can't hit that shooter and save the day by the end of page five; inserting and deleting commas in an attempt to please my eight grade English teacher, who will never read this, only to have, in the end, like usual, a manuscript that looks as though I liberally and randomly scattered them about; clearing up antecedents; cleaning up dialogue and wrestling with ways to say Innocent sounded distraught and very concerned on the phone—whoops, mobile—for the umpteenth time; sneaking in a very welcome viewing of Lewis playing the hero in _The Twilight of the Gods_; hours of googling just what do the British call baby strollers and if it isn't a piece of cake, what is it? and isn't there something else they can do but _huddle_ against that wall? and is _harry_ really what I think it is? and is my dad the only one who calls gullies _draws_?; trying to catch all the _he's_ that are supposed to be _his_ and _at_'s that are really _out_'s; and the all too-familiar, yet sadly unmastered dance with the vagaries of lay and lie.

And then, very late in the process, came the rather awkward realization that the dogs were mentioned briefly in three short lines of dialogue and then vanished into thin air without explanation or regard to continuity; and so Hathaway wasn't the only one to find himself having to get rid of the dogs at almost the last moment.

The critics at my house would have liked a basic understanding of what was behind the events in this story and a more…hopeful, happy ending. I couldn't write either of them because the story was finished. And now so am I…I hope together we've managed to give you something worth the time it took you to read it.


End file.
